The Wicked Die Twice by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2020-11-16T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

Slash felt something warm against the side of his neck. A warm breath.

He chuckled in his sleep, dreaming that he was in a warm doxie’s cozy bed. “That tickles, darlin’.”

There was a soft snorting sound.

“Go back to sleep, darlin’. Slash is too sleepy to play.”

Something cold and rubbery touched his neck. That woke him, his eyes snapping wide, remembering instantly that he was not in a whorehouse but on the step of Carlisle’s in Dry Fork. He turned to his right . . . and stared into two cinnamon-colored eyes set close together atop a long, gray, black-tipped snout.

The coyote’s pupils contracted. The bristled lips rose above sharp white teeth, including two impressive fangs.

Slash jerked his head back and gave a shrill yell that he was immediately embarrassed by. It sounded womanish—girlish—even to his own ears.

“I ain’t dead, you smelly, mangy, louse-infested vermin!”

The coyote yipped with its own start, lunged backward, twisted around in a blur of quick motion, and leaped down off Carlisle’s steps and into the street. It bolted off to the east so fast as to resemble a large gray bullet, quickly disappearing in the murky gloom of a soaking wet dawn.

Slash had been so startled by the nosy beast that he’d dropped his rifle, which he’d been holding across his thighs when he’d drifted into his nap maybe an hour or so ago. Now he bent to pick it up from a step below him, wincing as his stiff, old spine grieved him. It felt as though it would snap like dry kindling. This cold, wet weather didn’t set well in an old man’s bones.

“What’s the matter, you old devil?” called one of the prisoners in the jail wagon. “That coyote think you was dead? Well, you’re gonna be dead. You’re gonna pay for makin’ us stay out here all night without even a blanket and no tendin’ for our wounds. That wasn’t the only coyote on the prowl last night. A good half-dozen of ’em circled this wagon several times, sniffin’ an’ snortin’ an’ growlin’ through the bars!”

“Stop your caterwaulin’, Chaney,” Slash said, using his rifle as a cane with which to help hoist him to his feet.

Behind him, a floorboard squawked, and Pecos said, “You all right, boss?”

“I’m all right,” Slash said with a groan, planting a hand on his hip and leaning backward to stretch his spine. “Who screamed?”

“Never mind.” Pecos snorted.

“Coyote thought I was one of the dead citizens of Dry Fork,” Slash said. “You’d scream like a girl in pigtails, too, if you woke to see a coyote eyein’ you like breakfast.” He grimaced, shaking his head. “Foul-smelling breath, too! Nasty!”

“They probably been suppin’ on the town overnight.”

“Yeah, I heard ’em.”

“Come on in for a cup of coffee. I got a pot brewin’. Then I reckon we’d best hitch the horses to the wagon and start south.” Pecos turned and walked back into the saloon.

Slash turned to the wagon. In the misty gray light he could see the three prisoners sitting on the wagon’s near side, glaring at him like hungry zoo animals.

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